By Any Other Name
by Snarkoleptic
Summary: On the anniversary of the Blight's end, Danica Amell tastes her freedom like a fine new wine and Alistair learns that kings can still be men.  One-shot.


**Title: ** By Any Other Name

**Summary: ** On the anniversary of the Blight's end, Danica Amell tastes her freedom like a fine new wine and Alistair learns that kings can still be men.

**Disclaimer:** BioWare owns all; I just play in their pond.

**Author's Notes:** Set in the world of Through the Darkest Nights, this one-shot depicts a turning point as Danica and Alistair stumble their way through finding each other.

Reviews are always welcome!

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><p>She knows that revelry is an occasion for mingling, but she's not yet been at court for half a year. Of course she's heard all the current gossip by now, but even after this long she struggles to put it into context. The rumor mill is openly enjoyed among the nobles, their statements much louder and more malicious than any of the whispers she ever heard at the Circle.<p>

The society of court has a life of its own, and in spite of herself she is endlessly fascinated by the false bonhomie and insincere expressions of the nobility gathered for the occasion. She wonders how many of them understand the _actual_ occasion to be marking the trials of those who brought the Blight to an end, and not a veiled summons in the form of a gilded invitation to stand about in a room with plenty of wine and excellent food and room to dance.

She doesn't understand dancing, not in general and certainly not tonight. Why anyone would be tempted to wriggle and writhe in that way, in front of people from whom they would expect a certain amount of respect in the days to come, is entirely beyond her. The notion that the hardship and sacrifice of those who stood against the darkspawn and the Archdemon, one year ago tonight, could immediately be forgotten after the speeches concluded is yet further out of her grasp.

So she stands at a remove from the crowd, holding a hideously gaudy goblet between her open fingers, lightly swirling what she's told is an excellent vintage as if she knows what she's doing with it. And she watches.

Underneath the somber events the evening is meant to remember, she can't help but confess to herself that observing all this social intercourse has been enlightening for her. It has been somewhat encouraging to see the same thin veneers of confidence and trust plastered on the faces of those gathered here that she learned so well during her time in the circle.

Because what she doesn't see behind the masks is fear.

How can they not see how superficial and meaningless their interactions are? And still, she sees the genuine pleasure lighting up the faces of the crowd whenever they receive the imitation of high regard from anyone above a certain stature. As she watches those personages, she thinks they're every bit as good at schooling their expressions to elicit their desired reactions as she learned to be years ago. And they make it seem so effortless.

Thinking of social ease prompts her to scan the room for Alistair. Never in her life has she met someone _less_ superficial, and yet a simple smile from him can wrap an entire room around his finger. Amused, she wonders if it's because of his skill at the game that his actions bring the responses they do, or if it's because no one other than herself has the sufficient lack of breeding to tell the King of their nation that a slightly nervous laugh might not be the appropriate answer to a given situation.

Both, she thinks. A little bit of both. She surprises herself at enjoying the somewhat outcast nature of her role at court. Though it was worrying at first, she has begun to think, now and again, that she should perhaps enjoy herself for her magic and her lack of nobility and the sharp wit that's been asserting itself just lately at the _worst_ possible times.

She wonders what it means that her vocabulary no longer reaches for _His Majesty_ when Alistair comes to mind. Smiling to herself, she remembers him asking her to use his name when decorum allowed. She feels a familiar rush of pleasure at the fact that he would choose not to be His Majesty when he is with her. She wishes she knew what it was called, this feeling that swells in her chest like hope every time she thinks of his personal efforts to include her at court, and when she remembers how he suggested almost shyly they begin to keep each other's company for a time on the first day of each week's end.

She _does_ know what prompts her to press it back down, certain as she is that anything reminiscent of hope had to be hidden away if one was to survive in the Circle for any length of time. She is vaguely worried that it's taking her ever longer to suppress it now, each time it rises.

Her gaze having passed the length of the great hall a number of times as she was lost in thought, Danica isn't able to recall the last time she laid eyes on Alistair. Even were he not the King he would be something of a guest of honor, and she knows his sense of duty would keep him here, to honor those who fought and those who fell.

She thinks of his commitment, and the reason for the evening, and how she's come to know _him_. And she knows he _is_ doing his duty, and where he'll be found. She knows he'll believe it's his place to carry that weight alone.

But having stood vigil for so many hidden friendships and secret alliances for so many years in the Circle, she also knows that's wrong.

Abandoning the ostentatious chalice on the first surface she can find, she leaves the hall and walks quickly to collect her staff from her quarters for a trip through the city.

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><p>Leaving the guards who had insisted on accompanying him behind the door at his back, he strides across the stone surface under the rich warmth of a summer's dusk, unable at first to take in any of what he sees under the sheer volume of <em>everything<em> he sees. The day's heat rises from the building at his feet to greet him. Surprised at the sensory recollection that he had made this observation at such an inappropriate time a year before, he has to stop himself reaching for the sword he isn't carrying tonight.

Structural repairs had been completed months earlier, but as is the case with any warrior, the granite turrets and the ground beneath his feet still bear the scars of battle. It had been here, _just_ here, that the Archdemon had first caught sight of him in the flesh. And it had been here he had resolved that the sacrifice would be his.

He can hear the sounds of battle now, the screams and the shrieks and the singing of steel against steel. He smells the salty sweat of fear and the tainted ichor spilled from the veins of countless darkspawn as they tried in vain to harass him away from his target. His head grows heavy, his eyes fill and begin to spill over as his gaze rests on the lip of a turret, new stone set awkwardly over old. He can feel the world shaking beneath him with the collision of the Archdemon's massive tail against the structure.

He sees Aedan, who more than anyone gave him the gift of knowing what it is to live beyond himself. His friend is closer, much nearer, as the beast raises its head and bellows its defiance of death, and the man doesn't wait for him to catch up. He sees the scavenged blade in Aedan's hand, tearing a rift along the Archdemon's neck and plunging down from above.

_Noble bastard. It wasn't ever meant to be you, even if you did know my duty better than I._

The visions vanish at the sound of footsteps on the loose cobbles behind him and he pushes, _hard_, to hide the evidence of his grief. When he turns and recognizes his company, he is amazed at the startled confusion that takes the place of the pain and the certainty that it isn't his right to shoulder this weight onto another.

"Danica! What are you… How did you… What about the…" Unable to decide which question is more urgent in his mind, he simply stares, the ache in his chest easing a bit under the countenance of that cheeky half-smile he's seen so much more of, just lately.

"I'm here because I know your sense of duty. I got through the crowds by threatening to freeze the todgers off the louts who might have been inclined to cop a feel and showing them I could actually do it. The guards are the same two who roll their eyes across the eaves looking for assassins when they're not busy gawking at us at weekends so they didn't question my being here, though I grant you I was prepared to tell them you wanted me here if I had to."

Still staring, he wonders which of the available paths in his mind he wants to take.

He wants to laugh at the image evoked by the thought of this tiny woman muscling her way through the reveling throngs in the streets, but he's afraid letting that out of his chest will drag up everything boiling underneath. He remembers that weekend in the spring when she'd found him so soon after his argument with Eamon, that last holdover from his youth evident in the tears of anger in his eyes, when he'd resolved never again to show any weakness to this powerful woman, this vision of strength.

He shames himself by acknowledging the small voice that wants to send her away, to bid her leave him to bear the solitary burden his duty demands of him. He marvels then, at how quickly that voice is drowned out by the frightening realization that he really _does_ want her here.

He doesn't have any idea _what_ might spill out when he opens his mouth to speak. "But you should… I should…"

He thinks that even if he doesn't know, she does. And whatever he's come to believe or has been taught about his responsibility to those around him, he knows she has never lied to him, not even when she knows he won't like what she has to say. He can't make himself stop her once she starts.

"Bollocks." He sees her lip turn up in a sneer and somehow never thinks it's directed at him. "You've been listening to Eamon again, haven't you? Listen. I know something of grief and memory, and I don't give Andraste's left tit who you are, it's not something you should ever suffer alone. Tell me I haven't spent my weekends this past season getting to know the King. I wanted to meet Alistair."

_You can't spend _all_ your time kinging._ As her words from their first afternoon in the spring rise from his memory to greet him, he does laugh now. When the laughter gives way to the tears, he forgets to be mindful of his company as he lets her embrace him. He allows her to soothe his back with her hand even as he finds some small room in his grief to wonder at her unflinching ability to stand under the wracking heave of his shoulders every bit as easily as… As… Aedan did, after Duncan.

He finds himself telling her now about the _true_ Aedan, giving voice to the past that had nothing to do with the light-hearted exchanges around a campfire or a tavern table, and not only because remembering him in this of all places without speaking of _everything_ he gave would so severely dishonor his memory. As he sits beside her on the still-warm prison roof and winds his way through of any number of tales the weight in his chest eases. He knows she'll remember him every bit as vividly as he can describe. He knows she'll do so as much for Aedan as for himself.

And now, long after the sun has retreated under the advance of a true and clear summer's night, he remembers the look on her face when she had spoken of grief and asks her what she meant.

"Not now," she whispers against his ear. "Tonight is for you, and for those who stood beside you, and for the honor of your brother's sacrifice."

Brother. In an instant, he thinks she's found just one more thing Aedan gave him, one more gift he'd never thought he would receive.

It feels right.


End file.
